American McGee's Alice: The Unofficial Novel
by ProfessorVonSpooky
Summary: Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin: a fan-made novel based on American McGee's Alice. First person, Alice's POV. Rated M for all the same reasons as the game. Warnings: Death, gore, mentions of suicide/self-harm, etc.
1. Chapter 1

(A.N. Okay, so I did some poking around on Wikipedia and apparently those silly disclaimers that twelve year olds put on their fanfics are actually somewhat legit. So yeah, if you happen to be Electronic Arts, please be aware that I'm not making any money off of this, nor is it meant to be a substitute for the actual game, but if you really take issue with it, I'll take it down. Please don't sue me.

Also, since the formatting on this site always kinda bugged my eyes, I've made a fancy-schmancy illustrated PDF version available here: doc/244443915/American-McGee-s-Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-One )

To the Reader:

Whomever you may be, you've no right to read this. I take great risk in writing these papers-the memories contained within are painful, and I risk the wrath of my employer by borrowing his type-writing machine-but I feel it is quite necessary to catalogue my past, so I may stuff it under my bed and never think of it again.

If you are indeed an ordinary, sane person, this account will most likely make little sense to you, and thus, you have no good reason to turn the page. If you, like myself, are mad, then perhaps you will relate to my plight, and have the common decency to put these pages back where you found them, allowing me to keep my thoughts to myself.

_Chapter One: In Which I Am Saved From Death and Condemned to Madness_

A nobleman of my acquaintance once said "Begin at the beginning, go on 'till you reach the end, and then stop."

Sound advice, if a bit obvious, but he never did say where the beginning usually is. It could have been my birth, or perhaps the day I saw a rather peculiar rabbit in the Oxford Meadows. Alas-I cannot stall any longer; my troubles began with a Fire.

It started late at night, in the library-

No; I cannot yet bear to go on. I needn't tell you that breaking into tears just before dinner is hardly a dignified experience. Therefore, I shall begin with another embarrassing incident, which may be a suitable place to begin:

The waves of the River Thames slapped my body, and within my mind rose the seed of a regretful thought. The water felt as though it were boiling, although I knew such could not be true, cold as the night was.

The shock was enough to clear my head, just so I had the sense to realise[A1] what was happening and swim towards the surface. But the currents of the Thames were simply too strong. I was a half-starved sixteen year old girl; I had no chance of out-swimming it.

I struggled on and on, but my hope, already thin, was ever-waning. I knew I was dying, and I wanted to _feel _something about it. I wanted fear, or regret, or relief, or _something._ I wondered, quite calmly, if anyone would notice my absence. I doubted it.

With that thought, I resolved to cease my struggling and allow the water to carry me off into a better time and a better place, or, perhaps, into nothing at all.

A peaceful drop into unconsciousness, of course, was a foolish thing to hope for; a disturbing emptiness settled in my chest within moments, which rose to a vague yet agonising pain. I coughed out of instinct, which brought me relief for only the barest segment of a moment. I hadn't expected death to be comfortable, but this... This was agony.

If you, my unauthorised reader, fail to understand how that felt, stop reading and hold your breath for as long as you can. Within seconds, you'll note a strange uneasiness in your chest. Not long after, it will rise from discomfort to true pain, and your body will feel as though it is collapsing in on itself. I'd be astonished if you made it beyond a minute without giving up or passing out cold.[1]

As I struggled in the grip of this horrid sensation, lights flashed behind my eyelids and morphed into surreal visions, distorted memories of clocks and rabbits and playing cards.…

But even death, it seemed, could not shut out the chorus of voices in my head.

_Alice_, they called. _Please, Alice, come back. Come back to Wonderland... _

I came to at the sensation of hands tugging on my arms and rhythmically pounding on my breastbone. A rush of foul-tasting water came up my throat, and I jerked and twisted in a spasm of coughing. For several minutes I fought a furious battle for a gasp of air; by the time I managed to breathe at all, the muscles of my chest and abdomen throbbed from the effort.

"There now, Miss." A male voice. "You'll be all right."

I was lying on a hard wooden surface, with my head propped up on somebody's lap. The night air reeked of sewage and smoke. My vision was watery and blurred; I saw nothing but the brightness of a lantern overhead, and I covered my eyes with one arm for a few seconds before attempting to sit upright.

The hand took my shoulder and pushed me back. "Easy, now, girl. Don't go working yourself up."

It was by the roughness of his fingers that I realized I was bare to the waist, surrounded by strange men, no less, and I quickly moved to cover my bosom. Such efforts were hardly worthwhile, as another man, with a mumbled apology, had already begun peeling off my soaked skirt and petticoats.

I crossed my legs and clamped my arms around my chest, for I hated having people look at even my face, let alone my entire body. I was not looking my finest at the time, and my mental state pushed me into believing I was not only bedraggled, but repulsive.

My dark hair was all greasy and askew, and my body scrawny and warped from years of poverty and an anxious disposition. I was covered in burns from a long ago fire; in some places the flesh was seared nearly down to the bone, leaving massive cavities of crusty scar.

To my immense relief, the strangers soon took to restoring my modesty by wrapping me in layers of blankets and hot water bottles. Wrapped so tightly, I could hardly move at all, but I didn't mind much. The infantile comfort of a blanket gave me some semblance of calm, enough to let me make an attempt at sleeping.

My eyes had been closed a mere second before someone shoved a jar of smelling salts in my face, the urine-like stink of which roused me to a state of near-total consciousness.

"You mustn't sleep now, girl, 'least not if you mean to wake again." I squinted up at the man who had spoken; he wore a police officer's uniform, as well as an exceedingly bushy moustache.

Unable to speak in response, for my throat felt raw from spewing up water and my teeth chattered uncontrollably, I gave a weak nod. I knew well how the cold of winter could drag one down into sleep, and then death.

I was alive, I realised. The thought felt like a great revelation. I was exhausted, cold, and in a lot of pain, but I was actually _alive!_

I smiled and gave a contented little sigh. I wish to say I was grateful for my continued survival, but the truth was quite nearly the opposite; I smiled at how close I had come to death. I felt not so much actual joy as a state of drunken-like cheer, the kind of counter-intuitive relief I often found in pain.

_I ought to leap off bridges more often,_ I thought[2].

After the constables had ascertained that I could not possibly afford a proper hospital, they drove me off to the Strand Union Workhouse. I had spent a few weeks in a workhouse once before, after suffering an epileptic fit. The work was miserable, the food tasted like nothingness, and one of the attendants kept trying to lure me into a closet near the kitchen. It was for good reason that I went back to the streets as soon as I got my hands on the right paperwork.

One small mercy: being escorted was a much simpler process than admitting oneself. I was simply carried in and taken to a bed in the infirmary, while the police took care of all the tedious paperwork.

Quite promptly, the medical staff applied bandages and splints to my damaged limbs, jabbed me with morphine, and handed me an old, oversized nightgown. I pulled it over my head as quickly as possible, trying hard not to wonder how many other bare bottoms had been covered by it.

With my ability to hold myself upright impaired, I had to be propped up by an immense stack of pillows. I would have preferred to lie flat, but sleep, it seemed, would not yet be permitted. In rebellion, I sunk low on the pillows and half-shut my eyes. So exhausted was I that even the straw-stuffed bed and filthy sheets on which I lay felt as soft and gentle as a cloud.

The giddy feeling I'd had upon waking wore off within moments. I didn't feel much of anything at all by then. Just empty. Cold. Hollow.

I had cycled through such a whirlwind of rage and terror and grief that my mind lacked the strength to muster up a proper emotion. A most unnerving feeling-or lack thereof-but, unfortunately, nothing unfamiliar to me.

It took me hardly a day to grow weary of the workhouse life. I was perpetually on edge, lost in a strange part of the city, far from anything or any place I knew. I just wanted to go home...

Not that I had a home any longer.

But at the least, I would have liked to change into my own clothes and get out of that bed, which had gone all clammy from being occupied for too long. I felt bed sores forming on my rump and shoulders already.

I rolled and shifted about until I could stand it no longer. I cleared my throat and addressed the evening's nurse: "Excuse me. I'm feeling much better. May I go home sometime soon?"

The nurse, a tired-looking woman of about thirty, gave me a skeptical glance. "Perhaps. Where is it? You oughtn't to walk far in your condition."

The question caught me by surprise, and I stammered to come up with a suitable lie. "Not far from here-near the docks-"

The nurse's grim smile made for a clear indication that she had seen through both of my lies. I was not feeling well at all, and the closest thing I had to a home was an overturned rubbish bin behind Southwark Wire Works.

She paused and gave a heavy sigh. "While you're up to it, might I ask a few questions of you?"

"Go ahead." I leaned back on the pillows with a sigh.

She pulled up a chair next to my bed. "Would you confirm your name and date of birth?"

"Alice Liddell, fourth May, 1856," I said, staring up at the mould stains on the ceiling. Every word felt like sandpaper going up my still-sore throat.

The nurse, putting her little clipboard in her lap, began scribbling down some notes. "And how did you end up in the river, Miss Liddell?"

"Off the side of Blackfriars Bridge, Madam."

"By accident?"

"Not at all."

She stared at me in horror, as though suicide were a rare occurrence in "The Great Metropolis" of London.

"An attempt on your own life?" she finally asked.

I took far too long to answer. I didn't know what to say. As I stood on the edge of that bridge, my mind was racing and swirling, bombarding me with thought after crazy thought. I'd merely decided to leap off the side and let chance decide the rest.

"A rather half-assed one," I finally said. She flinched at my language, and I reminded myself that a lady in polite company mustn't speak aloud every word she hears on the street.

"But why do it at all?"

Why not? I wanted to say. I was just another wretched vagrant, with no future and a past that I desperately wanted to forget. A pathetic waste of breath picking innocent pockets and snatching scraps of food that should have gone to some desperate child more deserving of life than I.

Such thoughts had, in fact, led me to that bridge, but something else had caused me to jump.

Noting that the nurse had begun to tap her foot, I simply blurted out the truth: "I was on fire."

She looked at me as though I'd said something absurd. "How exactly do you mean?"

"I meant what I said," I told her. "I was standing on the bridge and a woman passing by told me to jump. I refused, and she lit my skirts on fire."

She gave me a long stare, so full of pity that it made me want to vomit.

"You think I'm lying?" I demanded.

"Well, no, not-"

"So you think I'm mad, then?"

She shook her head no, but her answer indicated otherwise. "I've spoken with the men who found you, Miss Liddell. Neither you nor your clothing were recently burnt at all."

I propped myself upright. "How can that be? I remember it clear as day! You've made a mistake of some sort."

A long pause.

"We need to get you off the streets." The tone in her voice made me cringe.

"I'll be fine, thank you," I said curtly, although I knew there was no getting out of whatever "help" she had in mind. Meaning, most likely, my stay in the workhouse was apt to be a long one.

"Are there any family members we could contact?" the nurse asked.

"All dead."

"Neighbours? Friends? Anyone at all?"

"I don't need anyone." I had meant to sound stoic, but the wavering in my voice had no doubt given away the truth. I faked a cough and blinked back the stinging in my eyes.

"I see…" she paused, frowning. "Perhaps we'll discuss this later. For now, is there anything I can do for you?"

_You mean like letting me sleep? _I wanted to say, but I already knew the answer.

"Oh-I've left my things behind."

"Hm?"

"My possessions are in an alley in Southwark," I said.

She nodded. "I pass by the area often enough. I'll keep an eye out."

"Thanks." I gave some more detailed directions, but couldn't help but feel offended at how little she seemed to care. No doubt she was used to having her things stored in some cute little suburban house, without even thinking of how easily they could be destroyed.

As it turned out, the nurse did in fact stay true to her word, arriving the next day with the small sack in which I stored my possessions.

The condition of its contents was even poorer than I'd anticipated. The night had brought a light but steady rain; the clothing had gotten too damp to wear, and the scraps of bread I'd spent hours collecting had been reduced to mush.

I dug through the damaged items until I found the one thing I refused to let go of-a small plush rabbit-but resignedly allowed the other things to be sorted between the drying rack and the rubbish bin.

The rabbit doll was a rather homely creature; it was covered in patches and crude stitching, and its once-white fur had turned a splotchy grey from so many years' worth of London filth. One of its button eyes had come loose, hanging only by a single black thread.

I turned it over in my hands and shoved a loose bit of fluff back through a tear in its hind leg. Damp and filthy though it was, I found immense solace in clutching the little creature to my chest. I surely looked like a fool, a nearly-grown woman clinging to a child's toy, but it meant a great deal to me. It had been in my arms while the Fire consumed my home, my family, and my dignity. It had survived with me, and served as the one solid reminder of the normal child I had once been.

In the effort of thinking about anything other than that night, I drew my arms closer around the rabbit, and for the barest degree of a second, I thought I felt it twitch. Startled, I let go to get a good look at it.

And it was looking back at me. Its head had turned of its own accord, and its one button eye stared with what I can only describe as an air of urgency. And then the creature spoke.

_"__Alice," _it whispered, _"save us."_

Before I could discern whether the voice was real or imagined, I found myself and the bed in which I sat surrounded by darkness. Something about the light made me think of a deep hole, but for all I knew my surroundings might have been nothing at all. Whatever it was, I fell right into it.

* * *

><p>[1] If you do pass out, I rather hope you'll drop these papers in the process and allow them to fall into a river, before a train, or in some other place where prying eyes such as your own will be unable to find them.<p>

[2] In retrospect, I realise how disturbing such thoughts may seem-and they really were disturbing, I will admit, but I find it necessary to chronicle my time of madness in its horrid entirety. And besides, you've no business reading this at all, let alone judging me.


	2. Chapter 2

(AN: Hooray! Three views! As usual, here's the illustrated PDF: doc/244501638/American-McGee-s-Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-2 )

_Chapter Two: In Which I Discover a Most Curious Location_

The bed (which had begun falling before I) clanged to the ground beneath me, and I followed it shortly thereafter. Deep as the fall was, the mattress served to protect me from any serious harm; I got to my feet before I even thought to assess my condition.

In fact, if anything, I felt much better than I had before, as though the entire drowning incident hadn't taken place at all.

From what I could see in the darkness, I was in a large corridor of sorts. Though dark, lit only by a few stained glass windows, it looked like a grand space, all stone and pointed arches, like the ruins of some long-forgotten cathedral.

A forceful wind blew around me, swirling my skirts and sending loose strands of hair in my face. I noted a dank, earthy smell, like a mushroom cellar that has been left unattended for too long.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw how decrepit the hall was. The checkered tiles of the floor were chipped and cracked beneath a layer of grime. Up the walls grew what I first thought to be ivy; upon closer inspection, they were bizarre tentacle-like growths, with a texture and colour like rotting meat. Worse yet, they pulsated as though alive. I poked at one of the tentacles with a loose shard of glass, which the thing snatched from my hand.

More curious yet, I knew this corridor; for the first time in many, many years, I had fallen down the rabbit hole and into Wonderland. Once the sanctuary of my imagination, Wonderland had since become little more to me than a relic of the childhood I could never reclaim. I had thought for many years that it had decayed completely.

My first instinct was to get out. Returning there, to the near-destroyed remnants of a happier time, was a physical pain that settled like lead in my chest. I didn't want to be there. Memories of a happier time seemed to make me even more miserable than the gloom with which typically surrounded myself.

Yet, even in my despair, something pulled me onwards.[1] I anchored my hand to the dusty stone wall (being sure to avoid touching the tentacles) for fear of losing my way in the dark, and took a few steps down the hall. The sound of loose plaster breaking under my feet echoed enough to make me wonder if anyone—or anything—was present to hear my approach.

I paused at the sight of a cracked marble table. A glass bottle sat shattered on its surface.

I heard a faint sound, which I had initially perceived to be my own echo, continuing without me. Even though my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I saw no apparent cause of the noise, but I knew well I wasn't alone.

"Hey! Who's there?" I called, taking up the nozzle of the broken bottle and holding it like a knife.

Again, no response. And then a smile appeared. A smile without a face.

I gasped and stepped back in surprise, watching as the face, and eventually, the body, of a cat formed around the disembodied grin. The Cat resembled a weeks' old corpse, emaciated and hairless, but for a few tufts of scraggly fur on the tips of his ears and tail. His fur had been replaced by exotic patterns on his skin, either birthmark or tattoo, and from one ear there dangled an old brass ring. Were it not for his yellow-eyed, oddly human grin, I wouldn't have recognized him at all.

"Cheshire Cat?" I ventured, just to make certain.

His grin widened.

I crouched down to give him a pet. I could feel every bone in his spine. "You've gotten quite mangy, Cat, but your grin's a comfort."

"And you've developed something of an attitude," he retorted. His voice was a deep, elegant purr. "There was a time, I remember, when you called me 'Cheshire Puss'."

"'Cat' will do fine," I said stiffly. No doubt he found it amusing to remind me of my innocent past. "Now if you don't mind, may I ask where I-"

He had vanished in just the few seconds during which I had broken eye contact.

"Cat? Where have you gone?" I demanded. In all honesty, I wasn't sure he heard me; as for whether he actually disappeared or simply turned invisible I could never figure out.

"Patience, now." The Cat reappeared about ten feet away from where he had vanished, grinning and swishing his knobbly tail. "Knowing where you're going is preferable to being lost; suppress your instinct to lead and ask a few questions. Rabbit knows a thing or two, and I myself need no weathervane to see which way the wind blows."

"That didn't make the least bit of sense, you know," I scolded, unsurprised to note that the cat had disappeared again.

He reappeared a little ways down the hall, and, confused and infuriated as I was, I had no better option than to follow. Wonderland had become an even stranger place than it always had been, and I had no idea how to find my way.

"Come along, now," Cat reappeared for a moment, before slipping off through a tiny door in the wall.

Though frustrated at his lack of easy directions-the door into which he had disappeared was hardly as high as my knee-I knew well the few laws of Wonderland's bizarre physics, and made a brief search for something to eat or drink.

There were a few dusty shelves about me, covered in all manner of bric-a-brac: books, clocks, and framed photographs of faces I could no longer bear to think of.

A tiny bottle sat on the nearest shelf with a label reading "DRINK ME" written upon it in fancy lettering. I knew the routine well enough from my childhood adventures: drink from the bottle, shrink, and go through the door.

That was, assuming the contents of the bottle wouldn't make me grow instead.

But if that were the case, I figured, I could simply smash my way through the entire wall. A less than graceful method, but suitable. In any case, I'd be going nowhere unless I drank whatever was in the bottle.

It tasted distinctly of gin-odd, as I remembered the flavour being more like a mix of cherry tart, custard, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast in my childhood—(perhaps some strange side-effect of Wonderland's new, less innocent reincarnation.) The burning sensation made me cough and lose my grip on the bottle, although it did not break, as I had already shrunk to less than half of my usual height.[2]

Beyond the door I came upon a village. It was mostly of stone cottages with thatched roofs, a little old fashioned, not unlike the villages of the English countryside I had once known so well. A flock of sheep wandered about, towering over the tiny village.

This one, however, appeared to be populated primarily by gnomes-or, at least, I believe they were gnomes or fairies of some sort, as they were hardly taller than my supernaturally shrunken self-interspersed here and there with birds and mice and other small creatures. But every one of its residents, man or beast, looked utterly dejected; tired and overworked, baskets of coal strapped to their backs, hunger smouldering in every eye.

And they were all staring at me. Whispering.

_ "__This the one Rabbit's been telling us about?"_

_ "__You think she'll save us?" _

_ "__Nah. But who could, then?"_

I set on a firm face, ignoring the shaking in my knees. I was used to it, I told myself. People looked at me in disgust all the time (or at least I thought so) and I had no more right to throw a fit about it now then than on any other day.

But then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a cracked windowpane on one of the cottages. Some insistently miserable part of me didn't want to believe it, but I didn't look as bad as I thought. At some point the ragged excuse for a chemise I had been wearing had been replaced by a clean blue dress and apron, and some of the long-vanished fullness had returned to my face and hair. I'd gained a solid inch in height, as wells as ample hips, a full bosom, muscular limbs, and shiny hair. I even thought, on impulse, of considering myself beautiful.

The crowd looked at me in not horror, but merely curiosity. Expectation. Waiting for me to speak or do something. I didn't know what they expected, though. I wanted to yell at them and tell them to go back. Surely a crazy little girl could be of no help to them, and I felt like a liar by letting them believe otherwise,—but I could not quite bring myself to object.

Was I truly a source of hope for them? _Misplaced hope_, I thought bitterly, but went on. Their anticipation had infected me just a tiny bit, although my melancholic mind feared to admit such a thing at the time.

I recognized the cottage at the end of the lane. Once it had been quite cozy and charming, but upon my return it seemed to be all but collapsing in on itself. The windows were all broken, and bits of thatch flew from the room with every gust of wind.

But the crooked nameplate on the door, reading W. RABBIT, marked plainly that this was the place I remembered.

I remembered the first time I had ventured into this house. I'd suddenly grown to several times my prior height and got stuck in an upstairs chamber. Hardly a dignified experience.

I thought back to the mutters I'd overheard in the village. Was I the one to save these people from…whatever it was? I? The little girl who had impulsively become stuck in a stranger's home? I nearly destroyed the place then, with my oversized self kicking about so in hopes of getting out. Thinking upon that, I could not even begin to consider myself a heroine.

The door swung open before I had the chance to knock, answered by a bedraggled-looking ferret in a maid's uniform. "Alice, I take it?" she asked.

I nodded, unsure of what to say, and wondered if I couldn't just go elsewhere and collect my thoughts for a few minutes. Returning to Wonderland was more than a bit of an emotional strain for me.

"No time for this dawdling, Alice!" The White Rabbit himself hopped into the hall, making a show of drawing his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "You're years late already!"

* * *

><p>[1] It most likely had something to do with the fact that there was no apparent way back, at least not as far as I could tell. I'm much better at falling down than I am at falling up.<p>

[2] Which was never tall to begin with. No puns with the name "Liddell" and the word "little," please. I've heard every one, and they aren't even funny. Not even a little at all.


	3. Chapter 3

(AN: Illustrated PDF available here: doc/244662155/Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-3 )

CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH I HEARTLESSLY MURDER AN IMAGINARY CREATURE

Rabbit had prepared the table in the parlour for "tea." I put the word "tea" in quotations as there was no actual tea to be found. Nor even coffee, nor any morsel of food or drink. Just empty china dishes, all cracked and dusty as though they had been sitting unused for quite some time.

Only by looking between the White Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat[1] did I get an inkling of what was going on; there was no food or tea available. When I thought of it, I had not seen a single man or beast that looked at all healthy or well-fed. The Rabbit, the Cat, the villagers, Rabbit's maid; all of them appeared nearly skeletal. Wonderland was starving.

"What on Earth is going on?" I said.

Rabbit looked at me as though I had said something absurd. "Why, it's tea, of course. It's already ten past six. Tea time is tea time, mad queen or no-"

"Not that; everyone here looks completely dejected," I said. "Are things really as bad as all that?"

"Slavery and happiness do not dwell in the same house." The Ferret, who had been wiping dust from the unused chinaware, spoke up. "And the Queen of Hearts has no intention of setting us free."

"To the monarch of this realm," Cat agreed, "we are all victims in waiting."

I frowned, thinking of Wonderland's queen; not a pleasant or admirable sort, for she was always threatening to remove the heads of everyone around her, but a dedicated deliverer of idle threats. "I'm not afraid of her or her creatures," I said. "Never was, really. You ought to stand up to them."

The Ferret shrugged. "We have tried, you know. But while the Queen is on the throne, only death can set us free."

"Or _her_ death, I suppose?" I ventured.

"Perhaps."

She didn't seem to get my point, or, at least, she denied it. I addressed the Cat and the Rabbit once more. "I'm still confused. What's happened to this place? I hardly recognize it."

Cat nodded gravely. "Time changes all. Trite but true, even here."

"I see." I stared down mournfully at my empty teacup. "Then why have you brought me here? To make me feel even worse, with your chattering on about time and changes?"

Cat's grin widened. "But perhaps you could change things, in time."

"Speaking of time," Rabbit said, "hurry up and finish your tea, dear. We must get going."

"But there is no tea-"

"Quickly!"

Taken aback by the urgency in Rabbit's voice, I pretended to take a few sips of tea. Just as I was about to declare myself finished, there came a loud crash from the front hall. I looked amongst my companions, hoping in vain for an explanation. The Cat had already vanished, the Ferret scrambled away, and the Rabbit paced the room, frantic.

"I'm a wanted rabbit, you know," he muttered. His voice was shrill and tight with fear. "Treason, plotting against the Queen! She'll have my head by dinner no doubt!"

"Rabbit? What do you mean?" I demanded, but he had already run off.

I ran after him, only to find my path blocked by a strange creature, half man, and half playing card, which I recognized as a servant of Wonderland's vile-tempered queen.

At first, the man-card-thing appeared more comical than fearsome to me. It resembled not so much a beast of nature as an oversized[2] playing card with stubby limbs and a line on its front that must have been a mouth. The eyes were presumably somewhere on the black clubs printed on its face, but I hadn't time for a closer look before it struck me down the cheek with its metal pike. I fell back, stunned and utterly indignant, and landed on the surface of the table, upsetting the ill-fated chinaware.

"Where is the White Rabbit?" it demanded. The presumed mouth scowled at me.

"You don't frighten me," I said. "I've fought your kind before."

These statements were only half-true. I had encountered these card-monsters many times throughout my childhood adventures, but they had only actually attacked me once, and when I was at a much larger size.

"Where is the Rabbit?" Were it not for the rising impatience in the Card's voice, I might have mistaken its speech for a recording.

"Stupid thing!" I exclaimed. "Can you say nothing else?"

At my reckless taunting, the Card looked most _terribly_ angry, and with another repeat of its question, jabbed me in the belly with considerable force.

I yelled in pain, clutching at the wound. Blood oozed out at an alarming rate, dripping down my fingers and staining my lovely new dress. I looked down to see a gash of several inches length. Had the Card used even a little more force, it could have sliced me right open.

It was then that what little instinct of self-preservation I had remaining switched on, and my heart began to pound with fear. In a panic I scrambled back across the table, and my hand landed on a knife that had been sitting unused on the cake platter. [A1]

I had to defend myself somehow. Perhaps this return to Wonderland was merely a construction of my overactive imagination-in fact, I had almost no doubt of that-but did that matter if I could not wake on command? I could feel pain just the same.

"One last time," the Card snarled, "where is that damned traitor Rabbit?"

I did not answer, breathless and unsure of what to say. The guard raised its spear.

With hardly a thought I flung the knife at the creature. It struck squarely above the little mouth, and the Card fluttered to the ground, dead.

Exhausted, I shut my eyes for only a moment, and when I opened them again I was back in the workhouse.

I blinked a few times, rather startled. So all of it, from the moment the Rabbit called to me, had been no more than a dream? I'd known it, I supposed; for as long as I remember, I've been prone to rather clear and lucid dreams.

"What in thunder were you doing, Miss?" A man, whom I barely recognized as the workhouse physician, grasped me by the shoulders. He was a large ageing sort who looked like he needed a long weekend.

"Well... Sleeping?" Somehow, it seemed like I was being asked a trick question, or at least being left in the dark about something important.

He let go roughly enough to push me backwards a bit. "Not 'sleeping'! Sitting up and staring at the wall for hours on end! Muttering and screaming to that stuffed rabbit of yours! I'm not even sure you were _blinking_!"

I noticed the eyes of the other inmates in the infirmary staring at me. Most of them looked apprehensive, if not outright terrified. What _had_ I been doing for the past few hours?

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"You, of course!" He began to pace to and fro like a creature in a zoo. "The nurses warned me of you! Said something was off about one of tonight's inmates. And sweet mother of God, I had no idea how right they were! You're the maddest I've seen all week!"

"And what's it to you?" I sat up a bit straighter, raised my chin, and crossed my arms.

"What's it to _me_?" His voice rose even higher. "What's it to _London_? What's it to _England_? We can't have loonies runnin' about Her Majesty's city!"

He was afraid of me, I realised. Terrified.

Worse yet, I couldn't help but wonder where he was going with all this talk. "Am I mad, then?" I asked. "Prove it."

"'Prove it'?" He paused a moment. "All right. You claimed you were on fire before jumping off that bridge, am I right?"

I said nothing, in fear of giving him even more to use against me.

"Here," he said, bending down at the foot of my bed and reaching for something out of my sight. "These ought to be dry by now." He handed me the same bundle of clothing I had been wearing the night before.

I turned the fabric over in my hands, searching for some bit of evidence that would prove my sanity. But other than the lingering fish-and-sewage stink of the river, it was just the same as always.

"No... Something must be wrong." I muttered, turning it over and over to no effect.

My heart sank, and I swore I felt it splashing, cold and stony, into my guts. I could not deny it any longer.

I was mad.

I had questioned my sanity many times before. At least, I knew I hadn't been myself in quite some time. Even before the Fire, I heard voices at night and saw things that no one else seemed aware of[3]—and, yes, I had on occasion wished someone else would acknowledge to my face just how strange I was, but hearing it unbidden from a stranger, and having the proof right in my face...

I wanted to jump off that bridge all over again.

* * *

><p>[1] He had reappeared for tea time.<p>

[2] Perhaps oversized wouldn't quite be the right descriptor; I was much smaller than normal. In any case, the beast stood slightly larger than I.

[3] Although then it was passed off as an "overactive imagination."


	4. Chapter 4

(AN: Illustrated PDF available here: doc/244809974/American-McGee-s-Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-4 )

_Chapter Four: In Which I am Committed to Rutledge Asylum for Lunatics_

By morning, the workhouse had contacted a lunatic asylum, and began arrangements to have me shut up for God-only-knew-how-long. Needless to say, I was less than pleased; I doubted any doctor could save me. And, worse yet, were I sent in, I wasn't sure I'd be let out again. Ever.

For the second day in a row (frequent even for me) I fell into a state of terrible melancholia. I hid my face in the pillow, attempting in vain to hide my tears. I felt like a fool, breaking down within everyone's sight, but I could not stop myself; I was rightly terrified.

A few hours passed, and I began to calm down, though for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps ending up in an asylum wouldn't be so bad; at least, it wouldn't be so unjust. What else could I expect them to do with a wretched lunatic like me?

By mid-afternoon, they made me sign a few more papers, and, not so long after, lead me by a cuff round my wrist to a wagon and drove me off to some place by the name of "Rutledge Asylum for Lunatics."

I knew little of this "Rutledge Asylum," but nothing I'd heard about such institutions had been very pleasant. Would it be the sort of place, I wondered, that showed up in penny novels, where screaming lunatics were chained to basement walls and put on display for a jeering public? A bit of asking around only got me an answer of "It's a very modern facility; a good ways from the city, plenty of fresh air... I'm certain it will be good for you."

As much as I hated being detained against my will, the idea of getting some time out the city did sound nice… It was 1873, which I'm sure you'll remember was a terrible year in terms of fog. From the wagon, I could barely see the buildings alongside the road; everything was shrouded in yellow, sulfurous gloom.

A few of my questions were answered about an hour later when the wagon approached an ornate wrought iron fence, beyond which lay a vast lawn, as well groomed and green as could be expected for the season. All nice enough, but those spikes atop the fence looked serious. If I were to tire of life within the asylum, there certainly wouldn't be any simple strolling out and going on with life, at least not upon my own terms.

Even in the drear of late winter, the grounds were pleasant enough, and, from what I could gather, utterly enormous. The cobblestone driveway seemed to go on for miles, although the distance may have been stretched out by nerves, and around it were scattered numerous buildings in all manner of conditions and styles. I caught sight, beyond the willow trees that lined the drive, of what looked to be a dairy barn and several fields. The asylum grounds seemed almost like a strange, self-contained village.

I inquired on this observation, and my escort gave me a vague and gruff answer of "All your needs will be provided for on-grounds." Whatever the blazes he meant by that.

Before I had the chance for further questioning, the asylum itself rose out of the fog. It was made up of stone blocks, with an ornate clock tower in the middle. From a distance, it appeared rather small and squat, but it grew more looming and foreboding with every turn of the wheel. I counted four stories, plus an attic and basement. And the width of the place dwarfed its height by comparison; it seemed to stretch on for miles in both directions. I realized that my neck ached from looking up at it. A pit formed in my stomach as the wagon came to a halt. The moment I stepped out of my relative shelter, I felt even smaller and more vulnerable than before.

_My God, _I thought, _what have I gotten myself into?_

The interior of the building looked most unlike what I expected from an asylum. I was led from a large and grand hallway to a small, elegant parlor. I perched on the edge of a dainty little sofa, hands twisting in my lap. I was still handcuffed to my burly escort.

I found myself unable to shift my eyes away from a pair of double doors in the corner. Above them hung a large sign reading "FEMALE WARDS" in fancy lettering. There was a little barred window embedded in each door, and I felt a dreadful urge to get up and peer through-if only I weren't handcuffed!

Or maybe I didn't want to know what was on the other side. I was in an insane asylum, after all; I'd be surprised if it _wasn't_ full of unspeakable horrors…

The waiting parlor was a rather nice one, I noted, determined to distract myself by thinking of mundane things. High ceilings, flowery blue wallpaper, and frilly lace curtains. A lovely degree of heat rolled out from a marble fireplace. Had I not been informed of my destination earlier, I might have mistaken the asylum for a nice hotel.

Common sense bade me to feel relief at my comfortable surroundings, but some small part of my melancholic mind found it disappointing. That dissonant bit of thought beckoned me to embrace the idea of being locked away in some hellish asylum, even shut up in a gloomy cell like a monstrous creature.

It wasn't that I quite _wanted_ to be abused in such a horrid manner, mind you. Rather, I felt as though the world could not be right unless I were brutally punished-or even killed-for the crime of my very existence. It was simple justice.

Not allowing myself to think in such a way any longer, for fear I would begin sobbing like a little child, I picked up and skimmed through a pamphlet reading "Patient Rights" that I found on the nearest end table. Mostly legal jargon, but, from what I got out of it, being female, having a police record of theft and "assorted mischief," and having been brought in by police order pretty much undid whatever legal rights I had. Well, except that my family could get me out. That would be fantastic, if I still had a family.

After twenty long minutes, the doors to the Female Wards opened, and an aging woman in a nurse's uniform beckoned me inside. The cop unlocked my handcuff and allowed me to follow the nurse.

She led me through some rather dingy hallways and into a rather dingier bath-room, in which five other women already stood. Water dribbled from the ceiling, and all about the room permeated the stink of mould. I cringed. If the bathing process upon entry was any bit as unpleasant as that of workhouses, I'd be _most_ irritated.

As I entered the room, a nurse and an orderly grasped one girl by the arms and dragged her forward. She looked a few years older than myself, with pretty blonde hair and a stunning face to match. Her clothing, though looking to be of fine materials, was notably oversized; she had to hold up the dress with her hands to keep from tripping over it.

The nurse demanded she undress, and she responded with a look of abject horror. "I shan't!" Her dress and accent oozed with wealth. My chest panged with pity. If she was half as rich as she looked, she certainly wouldn't be used to what was bound to come next.

"If you don't," the nurse declared, "we shall be forced to _tear _that gown of yours off, and we won't be gentle!"

She raised her hands to the buttons of her dress, trembling, only to lower them again, with a glance in the direction of the rest of us inmates. "May I at least have them out?"

"No."

"Silly whore," the orderly added. "If your reasons for being here are right, you ought to like being seen naked." There were a few mean-spirited laughs at this.

The girl began to whimper. I was reminded all too clearly of my own admission to the workhouse. I had fared only marginally better.

The nurse and the orderly pinned her face-down upon the floor, and began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. I did my best to avert my eyes, but the sight of a person screaming and writhing upon the floor is not so easy to ignore. Looking away only seemed to make it worse.

As her clothing was peeled away, the reason for her oversized dress became apparent. She was quite clearly with child.

Before they finished undressing her, she squirmed from their grasp and ran to yank at to door, shrieking for help. I wondered if she had any idea how futile her actions really were.

I could not bear to watch as they crowded around her. There came a tremendous ripping sound, and upon the floor landed a lace-drenched silk shift and drawers, the kind that likely cost more than everything I owned combined. Both were now torn beyond repair.

The nurse and the orderly dragged her across the room by the arms, exposing her naked body in what could only be described as a display of triumph. Already her face was red and contorted from frantic crying.

Feeling sick, I glanced over at the other inmates. Most of them looked as horrified as I did. One old woman began to sob.

They threw her into the tub and dumped water upon her head by the bucketful. She still tried to struggle. At this, the nurses merely laughed, and then proceeded to grab her by the hair and shove her head under the water. When they finally let her up, she was shrieking. They plunged her into the water at least three more times. Within minutes, she stopped fighting, and I actually wondered if she were succumbing to hypothermia. She shook uncontrollably, and her lips took on a bluish tone within minutes.

I winced, wondering how ill of an effect this rough handling would have. She'd been beaten, thrown to the floor, and dunked in such icy water that she was sure to develop a fever. She looked to be late enough in her pregnancy that the slightest misfortune could cause the death of both the baby and the mother.

As I've mentioned, forcible bathing in cold water is standard procedure for entry to a workhouse. I'd witnessed and experienced it before. But this was quite different. To enter a workhouse, one must already have been stripped of all pride; the bathing was merely one more thing to add to a long list of indignities, and the inmates took it in resigned, hopeless silence. I had never seen someone struggle in such a process, and it was beyond unpleasant. I had witnessed a once-respectable and dignified young woman turned to a helpless mess in a matter of minutes-an all too familiar scenario, in my case.

By the time they dragged her out of the tub and shoved an old canvas shift over her still-wet body, her will was already broken. She still wept, but her screams and struggling ceased. She just stared at the floor, shivering and gasping for air as they led her out.

They repeated the same process with each of the inmates in the room. Some still tried to put up a fight, but most just sat there, shaking and staring down into the water.

I didn't try to fight. Months of intermittent homelessness had gotten me used to shame and cold. The water was filthy, having been used to bathe all the day's new arrivals, and so cold it stung my flesh. I just wanted to get it done quickly so I wouldn't freeze to death.

Bathed and dressed (and yet not feeling much cleaner, for my shift itched dreadfully, and the dust on the floor clung to my wet feet), I staggered out to the hall on legs stiff with cold. Despite my better judgment, I stopped in my tracks on the other side of the door.

I found myself in an unbelievably long corridor, perhaps miles long; I couldn't quite see the other end of it. I had seen from outside that the building was immense, but there was something about that corridor-its flickering gas lamps, its deafening echoes, and its thousands upon thousands of dingy tiles-that made me feel so small…

For a moment, I swore I was actually shrinking. I felt my bones shutting up like telescopes, and the floor tiles rising up towards me.

_This is good, _I thought. _If you're small enough, they won't see you, and you can sneak out through a hole in the wall. Like a mouse._

"Come along; no time to gawk," someone said.

I blinked a few times, and suddenly I was back to my normal size, but still rather dazed from my sudden bout of psychosis.

I had been interrupted by a tired-looking, middle-aged woman whose name tag read "NURSE DEANE."

I apologized and began to follow her down the corridor. My bare feet flapped upon the tiled floors, and I water still dribbled from my hair and down my back. I walked hunched over with my arms wrapped around my chest, still half-frozen from the bath.

I knew I wasn't alone, for I heard people shuffling about in the cells along the corridors. A few patients even peered out of the grated windows on their doors to look at me. An old woman grinned at me and shrieked something I didn't catch. A girl of no more than thirteen sobbed and begged for someone to let her out.

I noted something red and splotchy around some of the doors' edges. The moment I opened my mouth to ask about it, the nurse cut me off: "Don't be silly, dear; it's only rust."

"How did you-"

"Everyone asks about it."

"Oh." I felt like I ought to have said something more civilized in response, or perhaps introduced myself, but I could think of nothing to say. I was simply too exhausted. I could barely think, let alone hold polite conversation. And besides, it occurred to me how ridiculous it was to think of manners while being locked up in an insane asylum.

Before I had a chance to speak, Nurse Deane stopped at one of the many thick metal doors that lined the hall. She fumbled with several locks and keys, and finally, the door opened with a creaking sound that made me cringe.

Beyond it was a rather cell-like room—about five feet across, and unnaturally clean in that hospital-ish way. It stank of bleach, enough to make me dizzy. The walls were bare whitewash, and the door was made up of a heavy metal grate. It reminded me of a gaol cell, which was anything but a good omen.

I sat upon the edge of the bed to test it out. Judging by the feel, it was nothing more a simple wooden board with an inch-thick straw cushion. I'd had better beds at workhouses. Still, it was a step up from sleeping in a rubbish bin, and at least I got a private room. Or so I thought, until Nurse Deane informed me that I would "have the privilege of joining the other patients" once the doctor had evaluated me. With that, she smiled sympathetically, bade me a good afternoon, and bolted all three of the heavy locks.[AL1]

Lacking a washbasin, I had no choice but to wring out my hair over the floor, leaving a substantially-sized puddle. Beyond getting dry and halfway comfortable, there was quite literally nothing else to do.

And I was tired. Very tired. After months of near-starvation, hunger pangs are easy enough to ignore. But the exhaustion one goes into, the dizziness and the moodiness, can easily kill. It is never easy to search or beg for food when one can hardly stay awake; every day I had grown a bit hungrier, and thus, a bit sleepier. Around the time of my arrival at the asylum, I often spent more time asleep than awake.

So having a bed-a real, clean bed-felt outright luxurious. It may have been lumpy and dismal, but it was off the ground, and it didn't even have any cockroaches in it! (At least none that I noticed.) Now if only I had my dear little rabbit doll, it would have been near perfection.

My things, including my rabbit, had been abandoned at the front desk for processing. It wasn't until late afternoon that an annoyingly cheerful orderly stopped by to plop my suitcase on the floor.

For one thing, I noted, it was much lighter. Most of my clothing had been confiscated. Neither boots nor stays were permitted in the asylum, I later learned, for fear that I would make a noose from the lacings. Added to the suitcase, however, were a pair of flat cloth shoes and several dismal-looking dresses.

After nearly a year living on the streets, dear reader, I can assure you I was not vain in regards to fashion. Most of what I could afford was frayed, torn, and worn for days, if not weeks, at a time.

With that said, you may believe that I do not exaggerate when I say these new dresses looked terrible. They were badly stained and worn-I even noted what appeared to be a bloodstain at the hem of one-and so ill-sized that they either bared the whole of my ankles or puddled around my feet.

I picked out one of the more bearable ones, a baggy black thing with yellowing lace around the collar, and pulled it over my head. Oddly enough, I actually missed having a corset; without it, I felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, not to mention a bit… _floppy_.

At the bottom of the suitcase I found my rabbit doll. Thank goodness I still had that! I cradled it in my arms and flopped down upon the bed. It wasn't until I was lying down that I realized just how exhausted and tense I was. The simple act of shutting my eyes felt heavenly.

I didn't intend to fall asleep, for it was not yet growing dark, but before I even thought of getting up again, I found myself immersed in a dream of falling.

I drifted downwards, slowly at first, picking up speed and falling from the dark confines of a tunnel and into open sky. I turned myself around to see where I was falling to. At first, I saw only clouds, and then, below me, a small village.

You, my dear much-despised reader, may be familiar with dreams falling through the air, feeling the breeze icy cold on your face as you fall faster and faster, and watching, perhaps screaming, as the world below flies up to meet you. Chances are, however, that you wake up at the last moment before hitting the ground (although, in my own case, it was the roof of a large house below me).

I was not so lucky.


	5. Chapter 5

_(Illustrated PDF available here: doc/245221830/American-McGee-s-Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-5 )_

_Chapter Five: In Which Wonderland is Even More Terrifying Than I Had Anticipated_

I crashed through the roof and landed back on the floor of Rabbit's drawing room, lying among the remnants of the tea set and the dust on the floor. Despite having left a vaguely Alice-shaped hole in the ceiling, I was mostly unharmed. Apparently a stiff crinoline makes a halfway decent parachute. Perhaps the military should be informed.

The card guard with whom I had fought, on the other hand, did not have the fortune of such rapid healing. It still lay dead, bleeding what was probably red ink on the rug.

I stared at it a moment in horror. I had just killed-not frightened, not comically injured, but _murdered_-a creature of Wonderland. Was I really so mad that I was dismembering my own childhood fantasies? For a solid five minutes I did not move, nauseated by the morbid deed I had done.

Horrifying as it was, I spent several minutes staring. You, reader, have probably never looked long at blood. Sure, you've seen it, but have you ever stopped to really _look _at it?

There is no colour so vibrant, so purely red as that of freshly spilt blood. In light, it's like the juice of a ripe squished raspberry; in dark, it's like a thick red wine. Let it fall, drop by drop, into stagnant water, and it swirls outwards into crimson tendrils, before dissolving into a perfect pink. In times of particularly terrible madness, I have spent hours pricking myself with knives and needles, just to watch that perfect red colour dripping down my skin.

Looking at someone else's blood, and feeling that same fascination-dare I say, _elation_-was incredibly disturbing.

I refused myself the self-indulgence of staring any longer, and finally forced myself upright. "Rabbit?" I called. "Cat?"

No response. Of course.

Making sure not to look at the guard's corpse any longer, I wandered out into the hall. Given what had happened to me after my last trip to Wonderland, I'd do well to get back to reality as soon as I could.

A familiar floating grin materialized before me. "All clear?"

"I think so." I glanced up and down the hall. "Have you seen Rabbit?"

Cat gestured to a tiny door down the hall. Even at my already-shrunken state, it was only as high as my ankle.

"Brilliant," I said. "Another impassable door. Have you got any more of that shrinking drink?"

He shook his head no. "But what is sought is most often found, if it is _truly _sought."

"Thanks," I muttered. "Every time I ask for a few answers around here, I get _nonsense_."

Cat had already wandered off.

Outside Rabbit's manor, the villagers were muttering again. _"Survived the guards? Impressive, but..."_

Some were starting to crowd around me, to the point where I had to push people aside to get anywhere. In my fragile mental state, all the attention rather unnerved me.

"Excuse me." I raised my voice over the crowd. "Might anyone know a way by which I could get a bit smaller?"

A few looked, but all seemed too absorbed in gossip to respond. I made a few more attempts, with no luck.

"Are you all just gutless half-wits?" I cried in exasperation.

They responded in a chorus of "yes!" and "of course!" and at least one gnome muttered "most days I don't even risk crossin' the road."

A twinge worked its way through my gut at how easily they swallowed my insult. Given the needlessly harsh nature of my outburst, I should have been relieved they didn't react in rage, but something about the way they agreed with me made my eyes sting, not with sadness, more like pity or guilt or maybe even fear. It was just wrong that they allowed me speak to them like that.

"I've heard of a school where such concoctions are made," a bird piped up. "Make your way to the mines;—the deepest pit." She gestured with one wing to a tunnel entrance on the side of a large hill nearby.

Cat nodded. "I believe I know the way."

I pushed through the crowd to follow him. "So what am I supposed to do once I reach this school? Are the potions simply being handed out, or will I have to take them by force?"

"If I'm not mistaken, the school laboratories contain some things to make a drink for getting small," Cat said.

"'Things?' What kind of things?"

"_Things, _girl. You'll know them when you see them."

"Right," I said.

A short while later, we approached the specified mine, which, according to the sign above the entrance, was named "Yur Mine." Odd name[1].

The place, from outside, looked dark, dank, and generally mine-like. Inside, it looked like Hell itself.

Machines roared and pounded all around; the heat of their engines was oppressive enough that I struggled to breathe. All around me sprouted the same tentacle-like growths I had seen in the corridor, although these were much larger. I jabbed at one with my knife, and it squirmed, but did not appear the least bit damaged.

Men and creatures of all kinds trudged about at their work. Most were dressed in rags; many just went bare, exposing portions of their anatomy that made me blush. Even so, once the embarrassment of seeing such things began to pass, I noted their hideous wounds; some fresh, some haphazardly stitched together, many turning green with infectious rot. I stared down at my shoes, too horrified to look any longer.

But the sights there, I'm afraid, were no better. Lumps under white sheets littered the ground. Corpses, I realised. I recognised the shapes not only of men, but of animals; cats, dogs, rabbits, squirrels; the sorts of creatures I had once chased and played with in the Oxford Meadows.

The stink of burnt flesh was unmistakable-years after the Fire, I remembered it clearly-and some of the casualties, it seemed, had been murdered. They had bloody stains at the sheets where their heads should have been, but there were no lumps in the proper spots to indicate a face.

They had been decapitated.

In horror I shut my eyes and covered my ears, trying to shut it all out. This was merely another dream. I knew it.

"I'm going to wake now," I said aloud to myself.

No luck. I still heard the pounding of the machines and smelled the stink of burnt and decaying flesh. Someone nearby began to scream.

"No, I have to wake up. I've got to wake up. I'm going to wake up now!"

And, much to my surprise, I did.

Relief surged through me when I found myself back in the asylum. But the screaming didn't stop. It came from somewhere nearby, perhaps three or four rooms down the hall, but the corridor of the asylum were so stark and echoing that I couldn't be sure.

I lay in bed for a bit, cringing, just hoping it would come to a stop. It went on for a solid two or three minutes before I worked up the courage to get up and peer out the little grated window on my door.

I saw nothing at first, and then, to my immense relief, Nurse Deane came hurrying down the corridor towards me, and I managed to catch her eye for a moment.

"What's going on?" I asked. My fingers clung to the grate so tightly that they hurt.

Nurse Deane gave a weary smile, but did not break stride. "Someone's merely having a night terror. Go back to bed, dear."

I nodded. Who _wouldn't_ have nightmares in a place like this, I began to wonder?

I sat back upon the bed, leaning against the wall and biting my lip. After a few more minutes the screaming came to a much-needed stop. My sudden awakening was unsettling, but bound to happen if the other patients were half as disturbed as myself; more than once I'd awakened my roommates in charity homes and workhouses in much the same manner.

Even then, my anxiety hardly waned. I still knew little about what kind of place Rutledge Asylum would be, but it already felt smothering. My room, or cell, more accurately, was terribly cold, and it smelled of antiseptic, dust, and cement. It was all too artificial, somehow; the air felt unnaturally clean, but not fresh, compared to the smoky reek of London.

I couldn't tell what time of night it was, but I didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of my nightmare continuing. But then again, I thought, collapsing back upon the bed, there was nothing else to do in such a barren room. I lay on my back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling, waiting impatiently for the morning.

Around midafternoon of the next day, I was led to a small office near the front of the building. A pleasant enough room, all in all, warm and well-furnished. I noted family photographs upon the mahogany desk, and shelves full of medical textbooks. The lovely scent of old books wafted throughout the room. For a moment I nearly forgot that I was imprisoned in a nightmarish insane asylum.

It took several minutes for the physician to arrive. He looked like the sort of man who might have been kindly-looking had I met him under different circumstances. Rotund, bushy-bearded and thoroughly aged, he looked rather like Father Christmas, except wearing slightly bloodstained surgical attire.

He seemed to catch me staring at a reddish stain on his inner sleeve, because he folded his arms in such a way as to partially hide it. "Pardon the mess," he said. "I just came from the surgical ward."

"Pardon granted," I said automatically. I supposed a little blood was nothing unexpected in a hospital, but the sight of it unnerved me nonetheless.

"Alice Liddell, I take it?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Doctor H. Q. Wilson, how do you do?" He pulled out a chair across from his desk, and I gingerly took a seat.

It was outright rude of him, in my opinion, to ask "how do you do" when my very presence in the asylum clearly indicated that I was not doing well at all.

I was relieved, at first, to find that the procedure was just a standard physical examination. The doctor shoved a thermometer in my mouth, a stethoscope to my chest, and a pressure cuff round my arm.

"Goodness; you're not pleased to be here, are you?" Doctor Wilson said, after taking a long listen to my pulse.

I shook my head no, still with a mouth full of thermometer.

He shuffled to a cabinet behind the desk, withdrawing a little glass bottle full of white pills, before returning to take the thermometer from my mouth.

"Here," he said, "take these. You'll feel better."

I thought of objecting, but I didn't see much point, and, in all honesty, I was simply too nervous to speak up. It just as well that I didn't; the doctor even checked under my tongue to ensure I had swallowed them.

"So, Miss Liddell." He sank down into the chair behind his desk, interlacing his fingers and resting them on his rather protrusive belly. "How is it that you ended up here?"

"Didn't you already see the files?" I asked. "I really have no desire to go over this again."

"Ah, but you must," Wilson said. "I want to hear this from your own perspective."

"Oh… Well, what more is there to say? I'm insane. Isn't that all you need to know…sir?" (His questioning distressed me so much that I nearly forgot my manners.)

"Not even close," Wilson said.

I shall spare you the dull details of the interrogation. I don't even remember half of them. Once the medicine set in, I was too drowsy to sit upright, let alone focus on my surroundings. I answered his questions[2] honestly enough. He showed neither horror nor sympathy at my plight, but merely scribbled on that little clipboard of his. I wanted terribly to see what he was writing, but I doubted he'd let me look.

One bit of the interview that may be of interest went as such:

"Have you ever suffered from fits, or anything of the sort?" Wilson said.

I felt a sinking in my gut. Epilepsy could easily be considered grounds for lifelong commitment, but I knew I wouldn't be able to lie about it for long. Best to speak the truth right away, and to speak it very, very carefully, knowing full well that the course of my life was at stake.

"Yes," I began. "For quite a few years, now… I mean, I don't get them often. Usually only if I've been drinking too much, or not sleeping." I didn't mention how difficult it is to avoid drinking and insomnia when one lives on the streets.

Wilson stroked his beard. "Describe them."

"Oh, well, it's nothing, really. I just get a bit twitchy sometimes," realizing how poorly I had delivered that lie, I went on. "I mean, I have had full seizures, but not _too _often. Most times I just get… _stuck._"

"Stuck?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not sure how else to put it. I'm awake, barely, but I can't control my body a bit. I'm either convulsing like mad or not moving an inch. It's nightmarish-ah, _rather inconvenient_."

"Are you taking medication?"

"Not lately," I said. "I haven't been able to afford it. But I do remember that it helped."

The doctor scribbled a note on a small slip of paper. "I'll send an order to the chemist straight away."

"Thank you."

He carried a manner that indicated how many lunatics he spoke to each day; I couldn't have been amongst the strangest or most remarkable cases. Or so I believed at the time.

"Have you had these all your life?" he asked.

I shook my head no. "Not until I was ten or eleven. The last doctor I've talked to presumes it has something to do with the Fire that burned down my old house, like a hit to the head, or the smoke, or something..."

It was then that the interview took a turn for the worst. "You've mentioned that fire quite a few times now. Would you mind telling me more about that?"

"I think I would mind very much, sir. Must we discuss this now?"

The doctor frowned a little. "We must sooner or later. This is the third time you've blamed your condition on the incident. Take as much time as you need; this is my last appointment of the day."

I got the impression I wouldn't be leaving the office until I told him something. "What do you need to know?"

"Just start at the beginning," the doctor said, "and tell me all you remember."

I took a long breath, trying to decide where to begin. And all at once, like a blast of water to the face, the memories flooded my mind in a jumbled mass. My limbs trembled, and my breath grew ragged in my throat. My heart pounded with such speed that I feared it would burst.

I would later be told that I broke into a fit of screaming, seized a letter opener from Doctor Wilson's desk, and tried to plunge it into my eye. I don't know if that was true or not.

All I remember are too many, too big hands pinning me down to the floor, and a massive needle being shoved into the crook of my elbow. The room went fuzzy, and I found myself back in my cell, strapped down to the bed.

* * *

><p>[1] Apparently my very subconscious isn't above weak puns.<p>

[2] To get an impression of what these questions entailed, see the nurse questioning me on page nine. The cops, the nurses, the doctors; they all asked pretty much the same things. Rather boring of them, isn't it?


	6. Chapter 6

(AN: Illustrated PDF available here: doc/247075217/American-McGee-s-Alice-The-Unofficial-Novel-Chapter-6 )

_Chapter Six: In Which I Happily Live Amongst Lunatics_

Another two nights passed before the staff declared me stable enough to move to the upper floors. The dormitory, "Ward C-Seven," was a small attic room with about ten beds lining the walls.

It made no apologies for being an attic chamber; all about it permeated the musty smells of dust and damp wood. The ceiling was of rickety old planks, nearly rotted through in places.

_I guess this is home,_ I thought, a bit plaintively.

Under the watchful eye of an attendant, I was allowed to transfer my things from my suitcase to a small shelf next to a bed, thus claiming that half-bed as my own (for the asylum was too crowded for each inmate to have her own bed.) There were no drawers or cabinets, but merely open shelves with rounded-off edges. Clearly, no secret was meant to be kept in the asylum.

I remember placing my rabbit doll next to the pillow, very carefully, in fear of it coming to life again and leading me into another nightmarish hallucination of Wonderland.

By the time I made it out to the dayroom, the other inmates were being rounded up to make a line at the door. There were about fifteen or twenty of them at the time, all female, and all within about ten years of my age. Much like a workhouse or gaol, the asylum sorted inmates by age and sex.

"What's going on?" I asked the girl in front of me.

She turned around and looked at me with bright blue eyes. "Occupational therapy."

Noting my confusion, a red-haired woman beside me clarified with a dry statement of "Laundry."

We were led out to the asylum grounds, lined up two-by-two like schoolchildren. I pulled in a long breath; I had not been outdoors in nearly a week, and I rather missed the sensation of cool, crisp air in my lungs. I glanced about, trying to get a better view of the grounds. Even out of the city, the fog was terribly thick.

The blue-eyed girl turned back to me. "You're new, right?" she whispered. "What's your name?"

"Alice. You?"

"Myrtle," she replied. "I'd shake your hand, but it's not allowed."

"'_Physical contact between inmates is forbidden_,'" the red-haired girl said, in a finely-executed mockery of Nurse Deane's voice. The two girls covered their mouths with barely-stifled laughter.

"So, what're you in for?" Myrtle asked me.

"Pardon?"

"You know, what did you do to wind up in such a place as this?"

"Oh." I felt my face growing hot in shame. "Well, I... I jumped off a bridge."

"Ah, I see. For me it's anger problems." Myrtle smiled; it seemed my response hadn't shocked her at all. "Stabbed my cheating bastard of a fiancé a dozen times with a sharp pencil!"

"Oh." I would have taken a step back, had there been room to do so. I hadn't given much thought to the possibility of the other inmates being dangerous.

"He turned out just fine," Myrtle added, presumably noting my look of horror.

I wasn't sure what the socially correct response to such a comment would be, which effectively dried up the conversation for the rest of the walk from the main building to the scullery.

The job of laundry itself was incredibly tedious and very reminiscent of the workhouse. Mostly, it entailed dozens of women standing at metal basins full of hot water, churning and churning for hours. Within twenty minutes I dripped with sweat from the steam, and my hands began to blister from the constant stirring of cloth.

Conversing during work, according to the man who oversaw our task, was strictly forbidden, but the majority of us were able to get away with it so long as we kept our voices low.

I became acquainted many mad women[1] throughout the course of my stay, although the four whom I remember best are Myrtle (to whom I had already been introduced), Sophie, Theodora, and Viola.[2]

Sophie was the red-haired girl who made a few comments to me earlier. She had been employed as a scullery maid in a large manor for years before the work drove her mad.

"It was horrid," she told me. "Just one hour off each week-never any time to get to the city to see my family, or do anything, really-and they beat me if I complained or asked for time off. The only thing I ever had to look forward to was going to bed. After two years I couldn't stand it any longer and drank a bottle of laudanum, and they sent me here. Can't complain _too _much, honestly. Anything's better than _there._"

I also remember that as I rolled up my sleeves to begin work, she caught sight of the scars on my wrist and made some comment to the effect of "Look; we match!" and I noted she did indeed have several scars along her arms, angled and lined up in such a way that they must have been self-inflicted. I did not respond, a little confused at how the she could bring up such a thing so lightly.

Two washbasins to my right was Theodora. I recognized her as the girl who had been beaten in the bathing rooms upon admittance. I think she recognized me as well, but of course neither of us brought the incident up.

She didn't strike me as being even remotely mad. Apparently her diagnosis was "moral insanity," which really didn't mean much of anything. She had ended up in the asylum as a direct result of her "accident." Her parents, horrified at her bearing a child out of wedlock, had her committed to "cover the scandal." As for how she had gotten pregnant to begin with, she made a point of avoiding the subject entirely. I got the impression that it brought up some bad memories for her.

Viola, at fourteen, was tiny (even smaller than myself), and dark-haired, with sunken, dark-rimmed eyes. She didn't quite seem "all there" somehow. I often noted her drooping over her work as though drunk. When one of the attendants caught her, she responded with "I'm sorry, sir. I just haven't slept in four days."

The others assured me that when she was well-rested, she tended to be quite friendly and energetic. I had dealt with insomnia many times before, but I had never realised it could become severe enough to drive one mad.

But then, perhaps mad wasn't the right term for her. In fact, I would say less than half of the patients I met could properly be called insane. There were a few who could not speak coherently at all, and one who claimed that Queen Victoria was spying on her[3], but most were merely simple, melancholy, or just plain rebellious. The patients of Rutledge Asylum, it seemed, were not raving lunatics so much as society's unfortunate flotsam, dumped there by a world with no other place for us.

In fact, looking back now, I think I was one of the maddest ones there.

Weeks passed with delightful normalcy. I think, in retrospect, my cheerfulness must have seemed utterly bizarre, if not outright creepy, to the other inmates. The asylum was hellish, in retrospect; we were trapped indoors, made to perform tedious work, and forced to eat the most repulsive food I've tasted in my life. And yet there I was, in a constant state of pleasant numbness.

I was fortunate to have been initially placed on the top floor; Rutledge Asylum had a sort of hierarchy of madness, where the "good" patients were allowed on the upper floors, and the "bad" ones were thrown down into the cellars[4]. I remember one girl, who had just been deemed "nearly cured," being brought up from the cellars to live with us. She was deathly pale and hardly ever spoke, although I once heard her saying something along the lines of "it's odd not to be in chains any longer." Even then, she gasped, covered her mouth, and refused to say another word when she caught Nurse Deane listening in.

It's quite peculiar; I don't remember being nearly as horrified by her state as I ought to have been. I suppose I was merely glad to be off the streets. Or perhaps all that medication Doctor Wilson gave me was a bit _too _effective.

The regimen on the attic floors consisted mostly of occupational therapy and long hours of doing nothing. (Or "rest therapy," as the staff preferred to call it.) With such copious amounts of empty time, I made an effort to re-teach myself the piano, for there was one in the dayroom to "encourage culture among the patients." Under close supervision, I was allowed use of a blunt stick of lead for drawing, which I hadn't done in years. I managed to smuggle a piece back into the dormitory (by shoving it into the tangled mass of my hair), where I kept it hidden under my mattress so I could use it whenever the nurses weren't looking.

Certainly, I wouldn't have been able to deal with such a regimented life on the long-term, but, according to the other patients, the typical stay at Rutledge was less than a decade. If the promised reward was a cure to my madness, I could put up with a few years of gloomy corridors and vile food.

And besides, the companionship I found there was remarkably comforting. There was a certain camaraderie amongst the patients; in an asylum, there was no real caste system other than that between staff and patients. And why would there be? Wealth means nothing when there is nothing to buy, breeding is kept secret when one is an embarrassment to a noble family, and even beauty is of little relevance amongst women in identically hideous clothing.

To say we were all friends, however, would be a bit naïve of me. We did indeed share a bond, but not quite of the kind among close friends or members of a family. Rather, we were like survivors sharing a battered shelter, with a duty to protect one another from the heartless world that lurked beyond our dormitory door.

Doctor Wilson's salad of pills seemed to be doing its work. I'd not had a single seizure in those first few weeks at the asylum, and I almost never felt my usual yearning for death. Even my emotions, usually ever-shifting, remained consistent and predictable. The pills kept me drowsy, sickly, and complacent, but altogether sane. After a few weeks passed, I was convinced that I was already cured of my madness.

Until I got stuck.

* * *

><p>[1] Contact with the opposite sex was considered "too apt to cause undue stress," and "too tempting for the nymphomaniacs." Although, later on, we discovered that one of the windows in the day room looked out over the central gardens, and invented a game of trying to catch the attention of one particularly handsome gardener.<p>

[2] If I remember correctly. I may be making some of those names up. For all you know, I could be making this entire thing up. Hahaha! You'll never know!

[3] Not that I'm judging. I too have suffered from the delusion of being watched, although never for more than a few days at a time. I don't think I need to tell you how unsettling it is.

[4] I _did_ end up in the cellars later on. Mercifully, I had almost completely lost awareness of reality by then, but what I do remember… We'll get to that later, and say for now that it was most unpleasant.


End file.
